


like sand through his fingers

by whiplash



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Lent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 02:19:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1451872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Aramis fasts during lent, and things get out of hand. (Kink meme fill.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	like sand through his fingers

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [like sand through his fingers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7493064) by [aqwt101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqwt101/pseuds/aqwt101)



> Prompt: "I'd like to see a fic where Aramis starts out fasting as religious penance (maybe after sleeping with the queen) then it goes too far + he ends up making himself ill. Don't mind gen or slash (pref Porthos/Aramis)."
> 
> Not quite a sequel to my other story ["he who handles gold like sand"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1439590) but if you like the one, you might like the other.

It's penance, he tells Porthos for what must be the millionth time.

Aramis might live the rest of the year like a godless whoremonger, but those days -- those forty gray and rainy spring days -- belong to God. He prays, callused fingers counting each recitation on the worn rosary beads. He gives alms and, when it comes to the fairer sex, he doesn't allow his eyes to linger or his mind to stray.

And yes, to Porthos' dismay -- as obvious as it's puzzling -- he fasts.

The rules are strict, but he follows them to the letter, erring on the side of caution whenever he finds himself in murky water. Most people cheat, he knows this and doesn't particularly hold it against them, but he's always found comfort in his own stubborn brand of discipline. 

So, year after year, he drinks his tepid water and eats his stewed vegetables, ignoring Porthos' blasphemous attempts to tempt him with pigeon pie or lamb stew. Rather than allowing the lack of food to weaken him, he finds strength in the hollowness of his belly. The hungry focus sharpens his senses. He shoots better, fights harder. He prays deep into the night to make up for the odd twinge of pride that makes itself known at this accomplishment.

This year, with the Queen's belly swelling even as his own shrinks in on itself, he welcomes the distraction of lent with open arms, disappearing into the rituals with almost unsuitable eagerness. Guilt eats at him, as well as regret. He kneels on the hard floor by his bed, head on his hands, and prays for his unborn child. 

After the first few weeks, he finds that the food he eats tastes of nothing. Not even the hearty meals on his friends' plates tempt him, for all that Porthos smacks his lips and compliments the dishes. Suddenly, it hardly seems much of a penance to fast. God will surely not be tricked so easily. He tries to do better, eating less and praying harder.

Over the next few weeks the hunger changes; instead of leaving him sharp and awake, it seems to wrap around him like a thick blanket until everything's muffled and dull. Then, in the span of one morning Aramis trips over his own feet and drops his rapier during practice. He follows this up by knocking over a pitcher of wine as they break for a quick meal.

Athos jumps up from his seat like a scalded cat, narrowly avoiding getting his shirt soaked with wine, while d'Artagnan, not quite as fast, curses up a storm while fumbling with his handkerchief. Porthos, growling like an enraged bear, grabs hold of Aramis by the neck and pulls him away from the table where the wine pours over the edge like a waterfall of ruby red.

The sudden motion leaves Aramis dizzy and nauseous and he swallows hard, unwilling to embarrass himself any further. There's an apology on the tip of his tongue, but before he can speak up Porthos has already dragged him around to face Athos.

"Tell me again," he demands, his thick fingers digging into Aramis' neck with punishing force, "what exactly needs to happen before we do something about this madness? Are we waiting for him to fall off his horse? Or shoot one of us in the leg?"

Porthos' face is ugly, red and twisted with anger. It's an odd sight and even though his mind's slow, Aramis knows it's his fault. He pats clumsily at his friend's shoulder in an attempt to soothe him, but Porthos just snaps at him to keep his fool hands to himself. So he does, staring down at the ground in hurt confusion. 

He knows that things have gotten out of hand, but he'll be damned if he knows how to set them right. In fact, he thinks with a kind of pale desperation, he'll be damned regardless.

xxx

Athos tucks him into bed, pulling the blankets all the way to his chin and closing the window that Aramis, despite the cold, has left open for the past few nights. A different kind of penance, though apparently it meets with the same disapproval as the fasting in the eyes of his friends.

"I'm not tired," he tells Athos.

Athos shrugs, dragging a chair from the corner of the room to the foot of the bed.

"It's not even gone dark yet. I can hear children playing outside still."

Athos ignores him, poking through the stack of books on Aramis' table until he finds something which suits him. With the book in his hand, he then sits down, kicking off his boots before stretching out his legs in front of him.

"You're treating me like an invalid."

"No," Athos disagrees mildly. "More like a child sent to bed, though with supper rather than without in your case.  Consider it another penance if you want."

He opens the book, turning past the first few empty pages.

"Now, do you want me to read out loud, or would you prefer to sulk?"

xxx

d'Artagnan brings him a bowl of meat broth and a plate with toasted bread, the first with pools of fat floating on its surface and the latter dotted with rich butter. The birds sing outside the window and rays of sunlight play on the wall while Athos sleeps in the chair, his head at an awkward angle and the book still in his lap.

The broth tastes salty and the bread grows in Aramis' mouth as he chews.

"Best eat up," d'Artagnan says with an overly-bright smile. "You don't want to know what Porthos threatened with if I came back down with the food untouched."

"Porthos is here?"

"He's been pacing a trench into the floor." d'Artagnan shakes his head, the fake cheerfulness slipping from his face for a moment, giving way to a very real and awed expression. "I don't think I've ever seen him so angry before."

Aramis stares down at the bits of shredded meat in his broth.

"He'll get over it," he eventually answers. "Not one to hold a grudge, our Porthos."

xxx

Porthos doesn't get over it.

Aramis spends the rest of lent in his room, pinned to the bed by the weight of Athos' unimpressed stare while d'Artagnan brings him bowl after bowl of boring but nurturing dishes. Beef broth, bone broth, chicken broth. He drinks more of the foul stuff in that week alone than he has during the past twenty-odd years combined. After some days, the hunger loses its strange hold and desperation is replaced with embarrassment.

"I don't know what to say," he tells Athos, breaking off a piece of his bread to dip into his bowl. "I suppose you must think me a damned fool."

"How about," Athos suggests, "you say nothing and finish your supper instead."

There's a growing collection of empty bottles in the corner of the room.

A reminder that they all have their demons to fight.

xxx

He sneaks out that night, draping his blankets over Athos on the way.

The air is cool and as fresh as it ever gets in the city. It will rain soon, the clouds hanging heavy and gray over his head. His strength has returned, his legs steady underneath him, and his mind less dull, but he can still feel it -- madness Porthos had called it, but Aramis rather thinks of it as an obsession -- scratching at the cracks in his armor. A demon, trying to find its way out again.

"You should be in bed."

Porthos steps out of the shadows, eyes dark and shuttered. Holding Aramis at arm's length, even as he closes the distance between them. Aramis, accepting the flash of hurt as his due penance, makes a show of studying his friend from the top of his hat to the very toes of his muddy boots.

"Ah," he says, after the silence has stretched on for long enough. "I think I recognize you now. No, don't remind me, friend, I'm sure your name will come to me soon enough."

"Good to know that your terrible sense of humor has recovered."

"If you'd come to see me," Aramis points out, "I could have reassured you of it earlier."

Porthos huffs, big hands tugging on the knot which holds his coat in place.

"If I had come to see you earlier," he says, "I would have punched you in the face."

The brutal sincerity in his voice startles a laughter out of Aramis

"I might have preferred it to Athos' choice in reading material," he answers, repaying his friend with some honesty of his own. "Or that cursed broth that the whelp kept bringing me."

Porthos drapes his coat, still warm, over Aramis' shoulders.

"Poor man," he mocks, "having friends to care for you."

"Poor me," Aramis agrees, soaking in the warmth as he allows Porthos to herd him back inside. Even though he can still sense the man's anger, simmering just under the surface, his friend's very presence feels a lot like some much needed absolution.


End file.
